


Case Of The Dead Man's Bells

by 3littleowls



Series: The Empty Flat Series [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Case Fic, Drug Addiction, Established Relationship, Flowers, Hand Jobs, Homophobic Language, M/M, Massage, Minor Violence, Murder, Recreational Drug Use, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes on the Asexuality Spectrum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-20 10:53:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3littleowls/pseuds/3littleowls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are called in to investigate a string of murders, but it soon becomes personal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gowerstreet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gowerstreet/gifts).



> This a casefic in the Empty Flat AU, you will want to read those stories first.
> 
> This story is flavored from the cannon story, "The Adventure of The Devil's Foot" and the same named episode in the "Return of Sherlock Holmes" (starring Jeremy Brett). If Moffat and Gatiss can do it, so can I.
> 
> Rating note: Chapters 1-5 can be considered Teen to Mature for violence and language. Only the epilogue chapter is Mature-Explicit. Reading it is optional for the casefic arc.

John taps on the open door to the lounge of 221b before wandering in. The room is dark and still. He is supposed to meet Sherlock here at 9:00am, so they can debrief with Lestrade on the latest case. He pokes around the flat, hoping his friend has lapsed into one of his meditative states somewhere in the house and hasn’t just buggered off on him.

The door to the master bedroom is open so John peeks in. He can’t help but to smile when he sees Darin and Sherlock still in bed. Both of them are sound asleep, dead to the world in a tangle of limbs and covers. Sherlock looks young and soft in his repose, his husband’s head on his chest.

Realizing he’s standing there like a stalker, John clears his throat loudly. Sherlock shoots up, owlish eyes peering around the room. It takes just seconds for him to boot up from sound sleep to full function. Darin is still groggy from being suddenly dislodged from his Sherlock pillow.

“Oh. Right. Lestrade.” Sherlock scratches his head and looks at the clock. “Late night.”

Darin is slowly coming around and finally registers John. He scrambles for a sheet to cover his bare arse. “Damn it, John. Didn’t we talk about this?” 

John is suppressing a grin and Sherlock’s eyes are twinkling in mischief. “I did knock and the door was open.”

“How many times do you need to see me starkers?” he says grouchily.

Sherlock, with absolutely no shame, flings himself out of bed bare. “Darin, he’s a doctor. He was in the army. It’s not like he hasn’t seen everything you have before.”

“Jesus, _Sherlock_ ,” Darin groans.

“Oh don’t be ridiculous. It’s nothing like when John walked in on us and I was performing fellat...”

John interjects, “That was special.”

Darin is flushing scarlet and pulls the coverlet over his head. “I hate you both.”

John had indeed once walked in on them in an intimate moment, and while everyone was a bit embarrassed and proceeded to get over it, Darin continues to be mortified. John, of course, being a good friend and a bloke, has to tease him about it brutally. Sherlock usually joins in the fun, being an all around prat.

“I keep telling you as your doctor a healthy sex life is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Will you get out of my bedroom, you wanker?” Darin hisses from under the sheet.

“I’m pretty sure that wasn’t wanking.”

Darin throws a pillow at him.

John is giggling when he closes the bedroom door, and he can hear Sherlock’s deep laughter coming from the loo. 

####

John makes Sherlock tea when he comes out of the shower. He is sure the man makes tea if he is home alone, but if another person is around, he expects it to just appear. John has given up fighting it a long time ago.

“You two seem pretty knackered today. Anything interesting going on?”

Sherlock stirs his tea, dissolving the gob of honey he put in it. “Working. Darin is finalising his paper on that new cultivar of Digitalis purpurea he developed. Then he is an exhibitor at the Chelsea Flower Show next month.” 

“The fast and busy life of gardeners.”

“He’s a botanist,” Sherlock corrects. “His new species of foxglove has triple the glycosides found in previous variants.”

“Ah. So, you almost ready to see Lestrade? We’re running late.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, gulping his tea.

Darin makes an appearance, fully dressed, and pointedly ignores both of them. He helps himself to the tea and flounces downstairs to the basement lab.

Sherlock and John giggle with laughter.

####

Sherlock is throwing sharpened pencils into the ceiling tiles of Lestrade’s office. He is already bored with filing his statement and they haven’t even started.

Lestrade comes in, flipping through a folder thoughtfully.

“Something new?” Sherlock asks.

“Yeah, but not your thing. We found an unidentified man, early thirties, dead this morning. It’s looking like the poor sod just had a massive heart attack during a jog.”

“A bit young for that,” John frowns.

“Yeah, but it happens.” Lestrade hands John the folder and Sherlock squeezes in to look over his shoulder. “We’re still trying to get an ID, didn’t have anything on him but a set of house keys.”

“Order a toxicology screen,” Sherlock tells him.

“I do know my job,” Lestrade snaps defensively. “Anyway it’s nothing to you. Let’s get this statement out of the way.”

####

Three days later, Lestrade calls them in on a case.

John is standing over a man, Owen Tregennis, who has collapsed in his lush back garden. Beautiful flowers fill planting boxes and fat bees buzz in the spring air. The corpse is spread out, as if he just dropped there to take a nap. “I’d say he had a heart attack,” John confirms, looking at Lestrade.

“I wouldn’t have called you in if I thought it was just a medical case. There are signs of forced entry to the back gate.”

Sherlock is lying on his belly, almost nose to nose to the dead man. “He vomited sometime before his death.”

John nods. “People having heart attacks can get acute nausea. Maybe an intruder broke in?  
Startled him? Was anything taken from in the house?”

“The wife says all the valuables are in order.”

Sherlock stands up and does a slow 360-degree turn to take in the garden. “We will need his full medical history. Something isn’t adding up yet. Show me the forced gate.”

The garden gate is made out of wood with metal hinges. There is a simple lock to give access to the back garden from a small alley between the two houses. Sherlock clicks out his magnifier to see the scuff marks on the hinges. It has been forced with a metal instrument, a pry bar or a claw hammer most likely. It wouldn’t have been a quiet enough process to catch the gardener unaware. So perhaps he was already hiding in the yard?

He scans the alleyway, and the ground near the gate. “Ah! Partial footprint. Really Lestrade, is your team sleepwalking?” Sherlock points to a faint outline of a heelprint in the gravel near the side of the gate. “He must have made this while getting leverage to force the hinges. It’s a man’s shoe. A size 7.5 or maybe an 8,” he scowls. “There isn’t enough of it to distinguish the brand, but it’s a smooth sole shoe like a dress shoe.”

“He was breaking and entering while wearing dress shoes?” John asks.

“What can I say? He has panache. Look around the garden for more of these prints.”

####

Sherlock paces back and forth across the parlor. He has taken over one of the walls- photos and case notes pinned and taped up in some order only known to him. He had been at it for hours and nothing new is coming to him. His hands are shaking from too much caffeine, too many nicotine patches and not enough food. 

John is tapping at his laptop, writing up the investigation for the blog. “I can’t find a name for the case with a good ring to it.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Just use case numbers and spare us.”

“How about ‘The Garden Plot’?’” John muses.

“Stop,” Sherlock whinges. “We have a break-in and nothing was stolen. The victim has died of an apparent massive heart attack with no previous medical history of cardiac issues. Current theory is that he was frightened so badly it caused arrhythmia.” Sherlock runs his hands through his hair.

“People can die from fear. The flight-fight response can trigger a massive amount of calcium into the heart cells that causes it to contract. It is extremely rare in healthy people though,” John notes. 

“There are no marks on the body or signs of violence. No trampled flower beds, knocked over lawn furniture or a indications of a struggle. Just a forced gate and a footprint.”

“Maybe Tregennis just had an underlying issue and the sudden stress of an intruder did him in?”

“That’s Molly’s theory,” Sherlock confirms. “Something just doesn’t seem to fit.”

####

“Maybe you need to let this one go,” Darin suggests quietly to Sherlock. He’s been working on the garden break-in for days, and hasn’t been able to unravel anything new.

Sherlock replies by sweeping the contents of his desk onto the floor, making John jump. “Order dinner,” he demands imperiously. 

This results in a Holmes vs. Allard dominance stare-down match of epic proportions. It goes on for so long that it makes John uncomfortable. When it seems that an actual fight is inevitable, Darin cedes and picks up his mobile to order takeaway. Sherlock is sufficiently intelligent not to look smug.

Sherlock usually makes people give way to the sheer force of his will, but John doesn’t often see him try that with his spouse. They are both driven men with strong personalities. On normal days, instead of clashing with each other, they often trade the power back and forth between them. It’s like watching ballroom dancers, where the lead can change seamlessly at any time during a song. Today they seem to be out of step, if John needed more proof that this investigation is really getting under Sherlock’s skin.

####

“Sherlock Holmes.” 

“Sorry to call you so late,” Molly apologizes. “A few weeks ago Greg had me run a tox screen on a man who was out jogging and died of a heart attack. At the time, it wasn’t suspicious, just an accidental death but...”

“You found something?” 

“Well, he definitely died of a heart attack, but it was caused by a high concentration of Lanoxin in his bloodstream. He also was taking a diuretic and had low potassium levels, which increase the risk of uncontrolled palpitations.”

“Lestrade mentioned this to me before briefly. Did they ever identify him?”

“Yeah, his name is...well, was... Matthew King.”

The name sounds familiar to him, but he can’t place it. “Medical history?” 

“That’s the weird part. Both drugs are given to heart patients under careful monitoring, but he has no record of suffering from a cardiac illness.”

“Molly, did you get the tox screen back for Owen Tregennis, the man we found in the garden the other day?”

“Yeah, that’s really why I’m calling you. His Lanoxin and potassium levels were the same as Matthew King’s.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen. “I’ll be down at Bart’s shortly.” 

Before leaving the house, Sherlock stops to the home chemistry lab they have set up in 221c. Darin is looking at something under a microscope when he comes in.

“Does the name Matthew King ring a bell?”

Darin looks up. “Yes. He was the secretary of the Chelsea Flower Show Committee. I heard he passed away about a week ago. Nice man. It’s a shame.”

“It’s looking like it wasn’t an accident. I’m going to Bart’s. Don’t wait up.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock is sprawled on the sofa in his dressing gown, his shirt sleeves rolled up. He is staring intently at the ceiling as if the answers are written in the plaster. He slaps on another nicotine patch.

“You are hastening your death in short order, you realize,” John complains from the chair. “When exactly, did you sleep last?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Sleep is boring. Stop acting like a nursemaid and help me figure out what I am missing. Tregennis and King both die from an apparent overdose of a heart drug, yet neither man was under treatment for cardiac issues. What is the other common thread between them?”

Darin wanders through the lounge. He doesn’t participate in the detective work. Well, unless Sherlock is feeling lazy and badgers him to run a chemical analysis. Otherwise he tends to make himself scarce when Sherlock and John are working, having his own pursuits to follow. It’s a Saturday, and today he is mostly at home puttering around on the rooftop garden. 

“Did you say Tregennis?” Darin asks, searching through a pile of books on the floor for something.

Sherlock snaps, “You have perfectly functional hearing.”

“I know an Owen Tregennis. He’s on the Chelsea Flower Show Committee.”

John blinks, “With the late Matthew King?”

“Just so. Why?”

Sherlock grins. “Brilliant.”

####

_We have another one. Heart attack, but she is alive. -Dimmock_

“Her name is Carla Packard. Her cleaner found her this morning, collapsed on her dining room table.” Sergeant Donovan explains to John and Sherlock. She lifts the police line tape and leads them into the dining room of a middle-class home. “We’ve left it untouched for you, Freak.”

Sherlock ignores the barb and circles around the dining room table, snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves. Playing cards are strewn on the surface and it looks like she was setting up for a game of solitaire. There is also a magazine and an empty cup of tea with a half-eaten biscuit on the table. 

“What about the cleaner?” John asks.

“She works for a maid company out of Bristol. She’s quite upset and says she is going to quit after this. We sent her home after taking her statement.”

Sherlock notices a cigarette case and an ashtray near an open window. “Was this left open?” he asks.

“Like I said, everything is untouched.”

Sherlock walks out of the dining room. The house is neat and orderly, knick knacks placed just so. He climbs a small stair to the second floor and finds the toilet. He opens the drugs cabinet behind the mirror and finds several prescription bottles.

“John. John,” he calls down the stairs. 

“Yeah, Sherlock?” John calls from the foot of the stairs below.

“What is pregabalin prescribed for?” Sherlock asks, holding up a bottle.

“Seizures, but it’s used to manage general anxiety disorders as well.”

“The latter then, since she also has a bottle of benzodiazepine.”

As Sherlock comes back down the stairs, Sally mentions, “Mrs Packard was conscious and quite upset when the paramedics came.”

Sherlock clicks his tongue. “She did have a heart attack. Most people would find that distressing, or is that news to you?”

“She was out of her mind. Even after the heart attack they had to hold her down.”

“Have Anderson swab the teacup and have the drugs and cigarettes tested for traces of Lanoxin.”

“I will. They are looking around outside at the moment.”

“Hey Sherlock. Look at this,” John says, holding a stack of mail sitting on a credenza near the door. The top letter is from the Chelsea Flower Show Committee.

“Ah!” Sherlock exclaims with glee. “Excellent, John. We are done here. We need to interview Carla Packard as soon as possible. I’m going to track down the cleaner.”

###

Outside, Anderson has Carla Packard’s bins dumped out onto a tarp. The bin had been emptied the day before, so there isn’t much inside, just scraps of paper and leftover rubbish. Something small catches Anderson’s eye. 

He picks up a screw cap glass vial. It has a number written on the cap: 3452 4/4

Anderson drops it into an evidence bag and continues the search.

####

__

_Send me a list of everyone on the Chelsea Flower Show Committee. -SH  
Did you send it? -SH_

_Hold your horses. Check your email in a moment. -D_

_I advise you to exercise caution with your dealings with the Chelsea Flower Show. -SH_

_I’m just an exhibitor. -D_

_Even so, association seems to be a health hazard. -SH_

####

On route to interview the cleaner, Sherlock’s head is dropping to his chest in the taxi. It’s been almost two days since he’s last slept, and he can’t recall the last time before that he had a full night’s sleep. He’s trained himself over the years via mediation and chemicals to not allow sleep deprivation to affect his working memory, but he can only ignore the demands of his transport for so long. The nicotine and caffeine help, but he’ll eventually start to involuntarily microsleep, and then will need to give himself a few hours rest. He lets his eyes drift shut on the taxi ride, taking advantage of the opportunity to stave off the inevitable downtime he’ll require.

####

“Hey, Sherlock,” John says into the phone. “Bad news. I can’t get into see Carla Packard. Seems like the heart attack triggered a nervous breakdown. She’s in quite a state and in no condition to grant interviews or speak to the police.”

“Inconvenient.” 

“Did the cleaner have anything to say?”

“Nothing of use. She came in, saw Packard unconscious and called 999. She opened the window to air the room out, since Mrs Packard had been smoking at some point. She then sat with her until the ambulance came. She is not of interest.”

“I’m at the Whitechapel Tube station. I’ll meet you back at Baker Street in thirty minutes. You want me to get you something to eat?”

“No.” Sherlock ignores John’s disapproving sigh. Food will just divert blood flow to his stomach for digestion and make him more tired at this point. He has a long night ahead of him.

####

First thing the next morning Greg Lestrade has an agitated DI Dimmock in his office.

He passes a folder over to Lestrade. “The substance in the vial Anderson found in Packard’s bin is a match for one of the drugs being used to induce these heart attacks in the three victims. It was also on the cigarette.”

Lestrade takes the folder and flips it open. “Good, that gives us some solid information, doesn’t it? 

“We also found that one of the drugs in the medicine cabinet was tampered with. Apparently it was switched with a caffeine pill. The theory is it was being used as a diuretic to drop her potassium levels to make the poison more effective.”

“What else?”

“We also got a good set of prints off the vial,” Dimmock winces. “You are not going to like this.” 

####

The text on Sherlock’s laptop screen is watery and seems to move in its own accord. Another sleepless night, and he knows he is at the end of being able to sustain himself. He just can’t shake the feeling that he is missing something obvious. He can nap later this morning as soon as he quiets the nagging sensation at the edge of his awareness.

Looking at the backgrounds of the victims was fruitless, and he hasn’t been able to piece together any possible motive. Why would someone want to murder members of the Chelsea Flower Show committee? Sherlock runs a hand through his hair.

His thoughts whirl and spin and he wishes for the thousandth time he could speak to Carla Packard. He wonders if her anxiety condition is some kind of clue. He types the name of her prescriptions and executes a search. No new information, its just what John said.

On a whim he types in the name of the heart drug, Lanoxin. A quick summary comes up. Used to treat heart patients. Helps make the heart beat stronger and with a more regular rhythm. So far so boring. He clicks to another site that has a summary of the development of the drug. 

_Lanoxin, otherwise known as digoxin, is derived from the leaves of a digitalis plant._

A cold sensation creeps into Sherlock’s gut as everything slots neatly together.

__

_A heart attack caused by a high concentration of Lanoxin in the bloodstream._

__

__

_A new species of Digitalis purpurea that has triple the glycosides found in previous variants._

__

“Oh. Oh no. How did I miss this?”

He snatches his mobile and calls Darin, who had left for work over an hour ago. It rings but no one picks up. Sherlock scrambles off the sofa in a flurry and rushes out of the door.

 _Darin._

####

Darin sits at his desk answering emails. He hates email. If he adds up all the hours he has spent replying to correspondence, it probably would equal several more weeks he could spend doing research every year.

He hears a quick tap on his door and his postdoctoral lab manager Roger sticks his head in. “Dr Allard? Um, some people are here to see you.”

“I’m not expecting anyone this morning.” It’s going to be one of those days of distractions, he can tell.

“I think you had better come and see what they want,” Roger says nervously.

Darin peers out of his office door. He is greeted with the sight of three officers and DI Dimmock.

“God, has something happened to Sherlock?” he gasps, his blood turning to ice.

“No, no. He’s fine as far as I know. This isn’t about Sherlock. We are here to talk to you, Dr Allard,” Dimmock says.

Darin relaxes visibly. “Dimmock, you scared the hell out of me. What can I possibly do for the Met?”

Dimmock hands an evidence bag to Darin. “Do you recognize this?”

Darin presses the clear plastic around the vial inside. “Sure. Standard glass vial, you can order them from a scientific supply catalog. You can find them in any laboratory, I use them myself.” He moves the vial around inside the bag and sees the numbers 3452 4/4 on the cap in his own handwriting.

Darin’s eyes widen. “Where did this come from?”

“Do you recognize it, Dr Allard?” Dimmock insists again.

“Yes. That number, it’s a tracking system I use to catalog distillations in storage. They don’t leave the lab! Where did you get this?”

“Can you show us where they are stored?” Dimmock asks.

“Sure, but what is exactly going on here?”

“Just show us, please.”

Darin shakes his head in confusion and walks to the back of his lab. He uses a keycard to swipe into a secondary room. It contains chemicals and and large freezer. He opens the freezer and pulls out a rack of vials. 

“They are in order. Number 3452 will be on this rack and 4/4 means this is the fourth vial out of a total of four. So...” Darin’s fingers trail down the rows. He sees three vials with the number 3452, with an empty space where the fourth should be.

“I...I don’t understand,” Darin says, perplexed. “This is a secure room in a restricted laboratory...I...who had my vial?”

“What is in 3452?”

Darin closes the freezer door. An index is printed out and taped on the front and it takes him a moment to reference it.

“3452 is digitoxin glycoside from _Digitalis purpurea_ variant hybrid F1 ‘Sherlock Holmes’. It’s a plant toxin distillation from a strain of flower I developed. Most people know it as foxglove.”

Dimmock nods his head. “Dr Allard, we are taking you in on suspicion of two counts of murder and one of attempted murder.”

“What?” Darin protests, “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Come along quietly and you can sort it out with your solicitor at the Yard. Could you put out your hands, please?”

Darin’s jaw drops in disbelief as one of the officers snaps a pair of handcuffs on his wrists.

####

“Stop! Just stop!” John has both Sherlock’s forearms in a tight hold, and has pressed him against the wall. Sherlock is wild eyed and panting heavily. John is starting to think he may have to change his grip to something more aggressive, since Sherlock could break free from his restraint easily if he decides to fight back with his Bartitsu techniques.

“Really brother, this overreaction is quite unnecessary,” Mycroft tuts, looking around the lounge that Sherlock has taken his rage out on. Furniture is upturned, papers flutter everyplace. The dogs have made a run for it and are cowering somewhere else in the house.

John hears Sherlock’s teeth grind and feels his muscles tense, and John presses him harder into the wall. “Mycroft, not now.” 

“I’m surprised. Acting like an animal and letting your emotions get the better of you. You must know destroying your domicile is counter-productive.”

Sherlock surges forward and John has to struggle with him again, slamming him back with enough force that he hears his skull clunk against plaster. "Mycroft, zip it before I shut you up myself,” he warns.

Mycroft sneers at John, but stops baiting his brother. “I called the family solicitor and he will attend Darin shortly. In the meantime, may I suggest you gain control of yourself and apply your ‘consulting detective’ skills to the problem at hand?”

When he feels the struggling stop, John cautiously releases Sherlock, who slides down the wall to sit on the floor. “Get out, Mycroft,” he orders his brother.

“Only trying to help the family,” Mycroft replies. “Keep him leashed, John. Good day.” He takes his umbrella and heads down the stairs.

Sherlock lets out a long breath and rubs his hair vigorously with his hands. He had rushed to the University and found the lab staff in chaos; Darin had been taken away just moments before. He had called John, but Mycroft had somehow found out by his own methods. Lestrade finally returned his frantic calls by the time he got back to Baker Street and confirmed his fears. He had seen red, mostly in frustration at his own ineptitude, and taken it out on his flat.

“I cannot imagine who would want to frame Darin for murder,” he admits.

“Maybe someone trying to get back at you for something? Old enemies?”

Sherlock shakes his head, “If it was that, they’d want to brag. They would leave me a message so I would know I was being punished.”

“A scientific competitor, maybe?”

“Oh yes, Darin has crossed Professor Evil with his secret underground laboratory and now he wants revenge. Do you even listen to yourself? Ridiculous!” spits Sherlock.

“Okay, okay, take it easy. What can we do?”

“We need to keep working on this case as we have been, obviously. Finding the murderer will clear Darin’s name.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning for homophobic slurs and drug use.

John is ushered into the interview room. Darin is wearing a gray jumpsuit, handcuffed and sitting at the table. He looks up expectantly when John enters, but his face falls when he realizes Sherlock isn’t following him in.

“Sorry,” John starts, wanting to slap Sherlock all over again. “I told him he should be the one to come, but he’s following leads on your case.”

Darin swallows and looks away to gather himself, but not quickly enough to hide his disappointment. “Of course.”

John pulls out a small notebook. “I’m sorry, but I have to get to it. I only have a few minutes and he wanted me to ask you some questions. First, he wants a list of people who have access to your lab.”

Darin considers. “The card access security system should have a record of who is allowed in, and who accessed the lab over the last couple weeks, including the room where the chemicals are stored.”

“We’ll get those records,” John notes. “You may want to make a list all the same, to compare who you believe should be allowed versus who is actually in the system. Cards don’t always expire when they should or are lost or stolen.”

“Good point.”

“Can you think of anyone you have had arguments with recently?”

“I guess it’s not a secret that Carla was pretty miffed that I was assigned her booth at the flower show. She owns a greenhouse, and her display generated customers. Mathew King, the jogger who died, he told me she was petitioning the committee to get her spot back. She was saying that my research was too sensational. Gossip is that she apparently said some derogatory things about me as well.”

John stops scribbling on his notebook. ”Like?”

Darin winces. “Um, well. Creative insults on the theme of me being a poof.”

John sucks in air through his teeth.

“John, I’ve been out for twenty years. If I was poisoning people because they said things like that, you know how many people would be dead?”

“No one thinks you killed anyone, Darin.”

Darin frowns and shakes his handcuffs at John in rebuttal.

“Well. Sherlock will fix this, okay? Just hang in there.”

“I go before a magistrate Friday to see if I can get bail. Since it’s murder and my prints are all over the vial, the solicitor is sure I won’t get out.”

“Okay, I’ll let Sherlock know. Hopefully we can have the charges dropped before then.”

####

Sherlock walks out of the run-down cafe, having obtained what he had wanted. He checks the clock on his mobile. He has made the transaction quickly and John should still be visiting Darin. If John is being stubbornly economical and taking the Tube, he should have plenty of time.

Knowing that Darin is sitting in a jail cell is unacceptable. He wants to rip things apart with anger, find whomever did this and make him pay. He isn’t comfortable with the ache of loss. Then there is the niggling fear of self-doubt, a strange and twisted thing nestled in the back in his mind. Perhaps he had felt it once, on the rooftop of Bart’s years before. What if he can’t fix this, for the one person who matters to him most of all? 

Sherlock hails a taxi, and immediately closes his eyes and collapses in the back seat. He regrets not taking the chance to get any significant sleep in the last several days. Now he needs to be at the top of his game, and his body is showing signs of no longer obeying the commands of his will. If he is careful and John doesn’t suspect him, the cocaine powder in his pocket will keep his body speeding along with his mind. 

He will be judicious with the doses, of course. With all the seven percent solution he has injected in his lifetime, what is just a little bit more? He may have the case solved within hours anyway. This is only a tool to him. He certainly is not looking forward to the bliss from when his transport can keep pace with his thoughts-that glorious synchronization. 

If he keeps telling himself that it may even become true.

####

“Mrs King just buried her husband Sherlock. Try to tone it down, okay?” John pleads as they ring the buzzer to the door.

“You already said that in the cab.”

A young woman opens the door, “Mr Holmes?”

“Good afternoon Mrs King. This is my colleague Dr John Watson. Thank you for seeing us.” John recognizes that Sherlock is doing his best impersonation of a normal person.

“Please come in. You can call me Beverly.”

They step into the house. It’s clean but well lived in and a bit chaotic. There are a few toys the belong to a young child scattered on the floor. John moves a teddy bear off the sofa before sitting down.

“Sorry about the mess. Things have been a little crazy. You know.” 

“It’s not a problem at all,” John reassures her.

“So Mr Holmes, you said on the phone you wanted to ask me some questions about Matthew?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind. We are interested in your husband’s relationships with the other members of the Chelsea Flower Show Committee. Was he close friends with anyone? Did he argue or not get along with someone in particular?”

Beverly considers for a moment. “Owen Tregennis was a friend of course, who also just passed away. They both worked together until Owen retired. They were primary school teachers. Owen is the one who got Matthew to join the Committee.” 

“How about Carla Packard?” John asks.

Beverly shakes her head. “Doesn’t ring a bell, sorry. The only other person I met from the committee was Nate Kagan.”

“Who is he?“ Sherlock asks, but he already knows the name from the list of committee members.

“Nate? He and Matthew would have drinks after the committee meetings sometimes. I didn’t know him very well, I think he works for an investment company or a bank. That’s it. As far as arguments, I’m pretty sure Matthew got along fine with everyone.”

Sherlock jots something down in his notebook.

“Was your husband under the supervision of a doctor for any kind of ailment? Was he prescribed any sort of drugs?” John asks.

“Oh no. He was very healthy and athletic. He trained for marathons and triathlons. He took a vitamin supplement and that’s about it.”

“Can I happen to see those supplements?”

“I’m sorry Dr Watson. I disposed of them. Especially with the baby walking now, there didn’t seem like any point keeping things like that around.”

“I see.”

“Would you like to see the garden too? Matthew worked so hard on it. I don’t think I’ll be able to keep up with it myself.” She says sadly.

Mrs King takes them out to the back garden. There is a small driveway with a carport, a few ironwork chairs scattered on the patio. There is a kiddie pool nearby. She points to the raised beds along the back fence which are lush with flowers. “He always had such a green thumb, my Matthew.”

“We are very sorry for your loss,” John says sadly. He can only imagine his life without Mary and feels a sharp twinge of sympathy.

“Do you think the man who the police arrested did it?” she asks.

“I have every hope of reaching some conclusion. It would be premature to say more,” Sherlock replies tightly. Probably for the best that Mrs King is unaware that Sherlock is Darin’s spouse. “We need not bother you further, Mrs King. Please let me know if you think of anything else.”

“Of course.”

####

“Well?” John asks Sherlock as they walking to the main road to hail a taxi.

“How do you suppose a primary school teacher who was the sole breadwinner for a young family could afford a new Jaguar?” Sherlock queries.

“The car in the driveway?” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Yes of course. Didn’t you notice?”

“I saw a car but I’m not a car guy. You’re the one always watching Top Gear. What’s next?” 

“Take the next cab to Owen Tregennis’ house and see if you can talk to his widow, too. I’m going back to Baker Street to research Nate Kagan.”

####

As soon as Sherlock gets to Baker Street, he opens the hidden compartment under the windowsill. He pulls out the solution he mixed the day before, and removes a new syringe from its wrapper. When he’s finished, he is careful to return everything back to its spot and then dusts all the windowsills in the flat, just to be thorough. One dust free windowsill would be a dead giveaway if there was a search.

####

Before John has a chance to knock at the Tregennis’ residence, the door is pulled open.

“Hey, pardon mate,” a burly man in workman’s overalls steps out and holds the door open. “You looking for the missus?”

“Yes, Mrs Tregennis?”

“Sorry then, just us here. We’re making a racket installing the new kitchen so she stepped out.”

John hops out of the way as another workman bustles out carrying a cabinet.

“May want to try again after four.”

“Ah thanks.”

####

_Sorry, she was out for the day. Getting a new kitchen installed._

_Did you get the name of the contractor? -SH_

_Yes, it was on the truck._

_See what you can find out about them. -SH_

_Do you need me to head back to Baker Street?_

_Come back tomorrow. I’m arranging a meeting with Nate Kagan. Details to follow. -SH_

####

John meets Sherlock outside of Equity Ventures Inc at three the next afternoon. Sherlock is sporting dark sunglasses and has his hair slicked back, and is wearing an off the peg three piece suit. 

“That will do,” Sherlock says, looking at John’s blazer and tie. “Web programmers are not exactly known for their sense of style.”

John huffs. “Right. You lead the way, ‘Mr Cassidy’”.

####

Sherlock and John give their assumed names to the receptionist, and are ushered into a small plain office to wait on Mr Kagan. Sherlock removes his sunglasses and tucks them into his breast pocket.

“When was the last time you slept?” John asks, noting the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes.

“What day is it?”

John is about ready to say something when the door opens and Mr Kagan steps in; he is a middle aged man of sturdy build. “Good afternoon, Mr Cassidy and Mr Johnson. I see you are interested in an investment portfolio for your Internet startup company?”

“Oh yes! You have come highly recommended,” Sherlock lies cheerily.

Kagan smiles. “I’m happy to hear my name was passed along. Let’s see what we can set up for you." He sits down and starts to flip through some papers and documents Sherlock had filled out. 

“We don’t have much right now,” John says as Kagan’s finger traces down a column of sums. “Our friend Owen Tregennis said you were just the man to establish modest accounts quickly.”

Kagan looks up from the forms, surprised. “Oh, he did?”

“If we could get a similar return to what Owen got on his investment, that would be ideal,” Sherlock adds.

“We will see what we can do. Let’s go over a few plans...”

###

An hour later, they have stopped at a cafe several blocks from Equity Ventures Inc so John can grab a bite. Sherlock heads to the toilet and John orders him a cuppa and a pastry he is sure he won’t eat. He’s flipping through Sherlock’s notes, trying make the connections.

“So what do we have?” John asks when Sherlock returns to the table, hanging his ill-fitting suit jacket behind the chair.

“We have four members of the Chelsea Flower Show committee. People of moderate means who have all recently come into a bit of money.”

“Four?”

“Yes four. I suppose I have to lay it out for you?” Sherlock sighs, exasperated. “Mr Tregennis, a retired schoolteacher is getting a kitchen remodel. You told me the contractor features luxury appliances, correct? So it’s a high-end kitchen. Mr King, a family man and a teacher, purchased himself a new Jaguar in the last few months- rather extravagant for a person in his circumstances, wouldn’t you say? Mr Kagan is an investment banker with a small windowless office. He does not handle large accounts since he eagerly took our small one. So he is not high up in the company and must have a mid-level salary. Yet, he is wearing a watch that is probably worth a quarter of his year’s earnings.”

“What about Carla Packard?” John queries.

“She owns a struggling greenhouse and garden center. In fact, she had it up for sale until two months ago, when she suddenly withdrew it from the market.”

John shakes his head. “What does this have to do with murder, Sherlock? How is Darin mixed up in all this?”

“I have to get a look at Kagan’s personal accounts first.”

“How are you going to do that?”

Sherlock just stares back at him blankly and sips at his tea.

John grumbles in annoyance. “Don’t get arrested too...” he stops in mid sentence as something catches his eye. “Hey, what’s that on your shirt?”

Sherlock looks down. There is a small dot of bright red blood blooming on the white fabric, right over the inside ditch of his left arm. He picks at it idly and goes back to sipping his tea.

John drums his fingers on the table and says tightly, “I’m not stupid, you know.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Sherlock dismisses, sarcastically. “At least it was an awful shirt.”


	4. Chapter 4

It takes Sherlock until about two in the morning to hack into Kagan’s files. He keeps both his email and data in a popular Internet cloud service. This was a fact easy to uncover since he stupidly recommended it on Facebook to get free extra storage space. He first tries to engineer his password by clues on his Facebook page: the name of his cat, his favorite rugby team, his birthdate and so on. 

When that isn’t fruitful, Sherlock decides to run password cracking software until he gets in. It’s going to take hours for it to process with his laptop, so he writes a quick script that will chime when it’s finished. He needs the data in the account to proceed, and there is no sense to try to work the brain without sufficient material. It would be like racing an engine and it could rack itself to pieces. 

He decides to give in to his transport, which was starting to win out anyway, despite the stimulants. He curls up on the sofa while he has the chance and seeks a few hours sleep. He is exhausted and his mind is starting to trip and slow, but he still has a hard time finding slumber. He can feel his heart still thudding as a side-effect from the third injection that day, and his muscles feel tight and twitchy. Eventually his body demands its sleep and he is able to settle and drift off.

####  
 _  
Mrs Packard has been released from hospital and has given a statement. -Greg_

_Anything? -SH_

_She said Darin had never been to her house as far as she knew. -Greg_

_Had anyone else been to see her the day before? -SH_

_Yeah. Her plumber and a guy on the Flower Show Committee named Nate Kagan -Greg  
_

“Yes!” Sherlock exclaims, and spins around the flat.

####

John arrives at Baker Street forty five minutes later, and he is struck at what he sees. Sherlock looks like death warmed over. His skin looks sallow and the dark circles under his eyes have deepened to the color of bruises. More telling, it would seem that Sherlock is becoming lax with his meticulous grooming. It looks like he hasn’t changed his clothes in a day and his hair is in a crazed halo. He glances up at John from his laptop.

“Have you slept or eaten at all this week?” John asks with real concern.

“I slept last night for about three hours.” 

“You’re eating something before we leave, no arguments. Look at you. You are going to fall on your face.” John goes into the kitchen and rummages around until he finds some bread and fruit that hasn’t went off yet. “I’d wonder how you kept yourself going, but I don’t have to ask, do I? We are going to have a serious talk after this is all over.”

Sherlock waves him off. “Not important. I have been going through Nate Kagan’s email. He has corresponded with all of the victims in the last three months about an investment.”

“Well, that is his job, Sherlock.”

“This is his personal email account and no other clients are in his address book. He has a vested interest. I also have access to copies of his banking statements he kept online. It seems he came into a bit of money recently.”

John sets an apple next to Sherlock, who glances at it disdainfully. “So you think he did it then?”

“Yes, of course. There isn’t enough here to prove it though, or to know his full motive.”

“Or why he framed Darin for it.”

“Which is why we need to talk to Carla Packard,” he says, snapping his laptop down with a flourish.

“First you are going to eat that apple and the toast I’m making, or I’m going to hold you down and force feed you,” John warns.

####

“You’re sure you don’t want me to talk to her?” John asks as they step out of the cab. He had reminded him on the way over that Packard had supposedly said some homophobic things about Darin.

“Why should I care if she doesn’t approve of my marriage, John?”

“Because she may not be as cooperative.”

Sherlock scowls. “That will not be the case. I am trying to find someone who tried to kill her.”

John throws his hands up in defeat. “Oh, just forget it.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock rings the doorbell.

####

“I really can’t see a reason why Darin Allard would want to poison me,” Carla Packard answers over a cup of tea in her sitting room. “He has never been to my house, and I hardly know the man.”

“Some other people in the committee said there was some unpleasantness?” John asks.

“Oh not really, just politics, you understand. There is only so much room every year for exhibitors. I have had a booth for the last several years, to promote my greenhouse business. The committee decided Mr Allard and his...interesting approach to plants would be more compelling.”

“You went to the committee and wanted your booth back,” Sherlock adds.

“Yes, of course. As a committee member I think I should have space. I also strongly advocate traditional English gardening and frankly Mr Allard’s focus on toxic plants is just sensationalist. I mean, why create a cross to make a plant more poisonous?” 

“Because he could,” Sherlock says blandly.

“No offense Mr Holmes, but that can also be said about Dr Frankenstein,” Carla replies primly. “Look at the trouble he’s in now from his mucking around.”

Sherlock puts his teacup into the saucer with a hard click. “What I would really like you tell me about, Mrs Packard, is your little pyramid scheme with Nate Kagan.”

Carla’s face turns pale and she stares open-mouthed at Sherlock. “I’m not sure that is your business, but It’s not a scheme Mr Holmes. We simply have a joint portfolio so certain small investors can pool resources,” she protests. 

“Ah of course. You along with Mr Tregennis and Mr King just had to find new investors to pass the high risk investment losses on to, while you all reaped the gains. What happened to make the situation go sour?”

“How did you know?” Carla gasps.

“It is my business to know. I also know Nate Kagan murdered two men and nearly succeeded in killing you. You should answer my question now.”

“Mr Kagan wanted more as the initial investor and as a fee to administer the accounts. Since we were the ones finding new investors and taking on most of the personal risk, we disagreed. There wasn’t a fight though, it wasn’t anything like that. We had a very civil discussion over it!”

Sherlock snorts. “Why argue when he could just kill you off and take your share? It is not like any of the surviving family would legally pursue a shady business deal, if they even knew about such a thing.”

“Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, I don’t want any trouble here. My business was failing and I was just looking for a way to make some extra money. Mr Kagan said the other investors would lose at first but eventually they would get their money back when they found new people to invest as well. I honestly didn’t think anyone would get hurt.” She starts to sniffle.

“Indeed, so much for that thought,” Sherlock says sarcastically.

“Mrs Packard, do you know why Kagan would frame Darin Allard for the murders?”

“No idea, really I don’t,” she sobs.

Sherlock flashes her a predatory smile. “Why don’t you invite him over and we can ask?”

####

Three hours crawl by and John and Sherlock are still at Carla Packard’s home. Carla is inside waiting for her next guest to ring the doorbell, and they have moved to a table in her back garden. There has been nothing to do but wait and drink endless cups of tea. Sherlock paces the small flower-filled yard, or nervously shifts in his seat, seeming unable to keep still.

“Just for reference, exactly how much cocaine have you shot up today? You know, in case I have to take you to A&E at some point,” John asks moodily.

Sherlock makes a derisive snort. “Oh do be quiet. I know what I am doing.”

“Darin is going to kill me when he gets a look at what’s become of you,” John whinges.

Sherlock stops pacing and looks perturbed for a moment. It’s if the idea has just occurred to him that Darin would eventually see what he has done to himself. He wipes his countenance clean and void and continues on with his prowling.

They hear the doorbell ring.

“Oh thank God,” John says and Sherlock takes his place at the table and looks nonchalant. They hear muted voices that slowly grow louder as the people inside approach the open back door.

“...have a seat Nate, I’ll be right with you.” John hopes Carla locks herself in the bedroom and calls Dimmock as instructed.

Nate Kagan steps out into the patio and freezes. “Hi. I didn’t realize Carla had company.”  
He cocks his head, trying to remember where he has seen John and Sherlock before. “Aren’t you those two Internet guys that came in the other day?” 

“Indeed. However, I must confess deceit on our part. My colleague is Dr John Watson and I am Sherlock Holmes. We asked Mrs Packard to invite you over so we could have a little chat.” Sherlock kicks the leg of the empty chair at the table so it hops towards Kagan. “Sit.”

He doesn’t sit. “Wait. Sherlock Holmes, the detective from the papers?” He glances at the back door nervously.

“Consulting detective.” 

“I wouldn’t try to run if I were you, mate.” John advises, reading Kagan’s body language. “Cops are on the way.”

“We can bypass the drama of the big reveal, Nate. I know you devised an investment scheme. I know there was some bad feelings about the division of the money that came between your original investors Tregennis, King and Mrs Packard.” Sherlock sips his tea calmly before proceeding, but Nate Kagan is becoming increasingly uneasy. “Don’t worry, I also am aware that you resorted to murder to get your desired funds. Greed? Not wholly. Desperation. I can tell by your spreadsheets you had other debts to pay. You were going to lose everything. Too many failed investments.”

Nate Kagan stares dumbly at them, mouth hanging open. Sherlock stands from the table and tucks in his chair neatly. John stays seated, but he shifts a bit to feel the reassuring pressure of the Sig tucked in his waistband.

“Now we have all the cards on the table. What I want to know exactly, is why my spouse is in jail for your misdeeds,” Sherlock growls, circling Nate Kagan like predator.

“Your...spouse?” 

Sherlock groans in frustration and his hands fly in the air. “Oh please don’t be stupid, I do not have the patience. Yes. Darin Allard. He would not change his name to Holmes, professional reasons and all that rot, but we are wed all the same. Why. Is. He. In. Jail?”

The air seems to go out of Kagan. “Shit. I had no idea you were the one married the that weird little nerd.”

Sherlock is too good at hand to hand combat to project his blows, so Kagan is taken completely unaware as he gets clouted upside the head. John smirks and stays seated. “You asked for that one.”

Kagan holds the side of his face and tries to distance himself from Sherlock. “Okay. Look I couldn’t make all of them look like an accident, right? Someone had to go down for it. I heard Carla ranting about this bloke who took her spot this year, he said was into really bizarre stuff like poisons. She had already been going on about how he was a queer and a strange one, so I thought he’d be the perfect guy.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “For murder? What would be his motive?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be a genius? He makes poison. How fucked up is that? Most people would be surprised that he hadn’t tried a few out for fun already.”

Sherlock snarls and Kagan flinches, wrapping an arm around himself protectively. He uses the cowering as a cover to draw a switchblade out of his jacket. He points it at Sherlock, threatening. “Okay, you got what you need to know. Just let me out of here and no one gets stabbed.”

Sherlock spreads his hands in supplication and takes three slow steps away from the door and towards the wall of the house. Kagan starts to back away looking to make his escape.

“Where do you think you’re going to run to?” John asks. He slowly eases the Sig out of his trousers and keeps it hidden and ready under the table. 

“If you have enough money, you can disappear.” Kagan’s eyes focus on John, and Sherlock takes the opportunity to spring into action. His fingers blindly find the handle of a spade propped against the house, and he jabs the blunt end into Kagan’s midsection. With smooth movements long trained from Bartitsu, he twirls the spade one handed so the flat side of the metal shovel is toward his opponent and bashes him upside the head with a loud slap. Kagan falls to the ground in a boneless heap.

John leaps out of his chair as soon as Sherlock is in motion. The shovel blurs as it spins again so Sherlock can change his grip to use two hands, raising it above his head like a spear to impale the prone figure on the ground. 

“Sherlock! STOP!” John shouts. Sherlock’s shoulder muscles bunch as he halts his final stroke, inches from the unconscious Kagan’s throat. John scrambles over to his side, and Sherlock’s eyes are wild and feral, the sharp blade of the spade still leveled in threat.

“You got him. Now give that here,” John orders and moves to reach for the spade. Sherlock twitches away just a bit, his expression still dangerous. “Easy. Dimmock will be here any second. Let me have it.”

Sherlock blinks once and comes back to himself and hands over his makeshift weapon. John breathes a sigh of relief. “Okay, good. It’s over. It’s all over.” He tucks his gun away and leans over Kagan, quickly taking his vitals. “He’s out cold but thankfully still breathing. Jesus.”

Sherlock sways a bit where he stands and John looks up at him. His face, too pale, is devoid of any emotion. John is about ready to ask him if his is okay, but then he hears sirens sound in the distance.

###

Nate Kagan starts to come to when they are loading him in the ambulance. John keeps thanking all the deities he can think of that Sherlock hadn’t brained him. There is only so much that can be forgiven in self-defense without a big court case.

“Hey John, can I talk to you a minute?” Lestrade asks. This is Dimmock’s case and he’s making the arrest, but Greg has come as a ride-along. 

“Yeah, sure,” John replies.

“Is Sherlock OK? He looks a bit...”

“No, I think he’s made himself ill. He hasn’t really eaten or slept in I don’t know how long.”  
 _Oh and he’s jacked up on cocaine again _, John thinks to himself.__

__“This one was too personal, I guess.”_ _

__“Yeah, but I’m sure he doesn’t want to hear that.”_ _

__####_ _

__Back at the yard there is sense of urgency to take statements to get all the evidence gathered against Kagan as soon as possible. Dimmock is standing by for word that they can go to hospital and talk to their suspect. Darin’s solicitor has been contacted and the police are working on getting his charges dropped._ _

__Sherlock is crashing hard. The drugs, few hours sleep and the little food John was able to get into him have not sustained him for long. He looks like a shadow of his usual self, barely able to keep awake, skin gray and thoughts wandering. He simply refuses to go home to bed in case he’s needed in some way. So John keeps an eye on him and tries to feed him biscuits and tea, which he barely touches. Finally he dozes off in a chair in Dimmock’s office. Even the Detective Inspector takes pity on him. He turns off the light and moves out to work in the bullpen._ _

__####_ _

__“Sherlock, hey wake up.” John shakes his shoulder. “I’m taking you back to Baker Street.”_ _

__Sherlock starts awake and almost rolls out of the chair. John grips his arm long enough for him to come to._ _

__“It’s all we can do for now. Darin should be released sometime tomorrow. Come on, let’s get some real food into you and put you to bed.” Sherlock is bleary-eyed and doesn’t resist when John shepherds him into a taxi._ _

__“Did they talk to Kagan yet?” Sherlock asks on the ride back._ _

__“Yeah. Apparently, being banged on the head made him cooperative. He paid off a custodian to snitch a keycard and get the vial of poison out of the lab. Kagan gave his name and they are bringing him in, so his statement should definitely spring Darin.”_ _

__“I see. From that point on it was easy,” Sherlock fills in. “He could simply visit the victims and lace something in their homes with the poison and caffeine. With Owen Tregennis, he knew his property well enough that he was aware that his garden gate would be easy to force and make look like a break-in. All he had to do to suggest Darin did it was to wear a smaller pair of dress shoes. He saved Carla Packard for last, and dropped the vial in her bins after the rubbish was picked up that week, so it was sure to be found.”_ _

__“How did he know Darin’s shoe size, do you think?” John muses._ _

__“Any number of ways. Probably a footprint when Darin was at a flower show meeting. Perhaps Kagan splashed out a bit of water from a custodian’s pail. If Darin walked through it, a wet outline would work well enough.”_ _

__“Here we are,” the cabbie calls out and pulls up to the kerb. John is left to pay as Sherlock gets out and turns his key in the door of 221b. Some things never change._ _


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reader, Anarfea saw a few more errors and volunteered to second-pass beta. Those bloody commas!! Thanks!  
> If you have comments feel free, I'm completely open to constructive feedback.

Darin and Sherlock ride in silence from the prison.

Darin is shocked at Sherlock’s appearance. He is so pale he almost looks translucent. His eyes are a dull battleship gray, his clothes uncharacteristically rumpled. He must have lost weight over the week, because his face seems more angular and gaunt. He is silent and only speaks if a response is required. He quite frankly looks like a spectre.

Darin’s mobile rings. Sherlock’s eyes shift as he listens in on the conversation.

“Hello, Margaret.”

A pause.

“Yes, thank you. It was very trying.”

A longer pause.

“I see,” Darin said a tinge of resignation in his voice, “I understand. Please let me know what the committee decides.”

Darin closes his eyes as he listens. “I’m sure. Thank you for calling.”

Darin ends the call. He feels like he is fraying around the edges and will soon burst apart. “That was my department chair. I’m still under suspension until the Dean’s committee meets in a few weeks time.”

“All charges have been dropped against you. Surely they have no grounds for a continuation.”

“The wheels of academia turn slowly. It’s not about law, it’s politics and reputation.” Darin is tired. He wants to forget all this ever happened, resume his life and get back to work. It seems he is to be denied that simple wish for a bit longer.

Sherlock lapses back into silence. With his own thoughts spinning, Darin finds he has nothing more to say, either.

###

When they get home, Sherlock is still as quiet as the grave. He pours Darin a Scotch and sets it beside him like an offering. He tries to smile at him in reassurance but his face refuses to be forced into the right shape. Darin watches as he retreats into their bedroom and closes the door with a gentle click.

He slumps on the sofa with a groan. He’s not sure what Sherlock went through this week to rescue him, but he can well imagine it was hell. Sherlock is dealing with feelings as he often does, by tamping them down and strangling them until he feels nothing at all.

Darin sips the Scotch and understands it’s significance. His spouse isn’t harboring any ill feelings toward him. There would have been an epic flounce and slamming of doors. His retreat is caused by his own inner turmoil, and the emotional shields he can’t easily drop once they are so strongly erected.

Exhaustion sweeps over Darin and it’s all he can do to stay sitting up on the sofa. He trusted that Sherlock and John would set things right, but the whole ordeal had been terrifying. Between the trauma of being taken out of his lab in cuffs, the stress of being in lockdown and the idle hours with nothing to do but to anxiously churn over the what-ifs. It isn’t even over yet, with his suspension still in force.

He wants to go into the bedroom, lie next to Sherlock and at least offer him his warmth. To slowly thaw him by simple proximity. He would probably end up being a burden, he realizes. He would end up trying to find his own reassurance and then would likely break apart under the forces of his own dark clouds. So perhaps it was for the best, he and Sherlock locked in their own islands of misery, neither having any extra emotional resources to comfort the other.

Sophie and Gladstone perk up and yip at the rattle of a key downstairs. John taps on the doorframe of the lounge a moment later, smiling at Darin. “Welcome back!”

Darin holds his glass up in salute. “No small thanks to you.”

John shrugs it off. “No problem, mate. Mary made that Moroccan stew you like.” John goes into the kitchen and puts a bag in the refrigerator.“Where is Himself?”

Darin waves towards the bedroom.

“Sleeping?” John asks hopefully.

“I doubt that.”

“Ah.” John sits across from Darin and studies him for a minute. “You look a bit of a wreck. You could do with some rest yourself.”

“Not as bad as Sherlock looks,” Darin says, watching the amber liquid swirl in his glass.

“Yeah,” John says quietly. “He’s been in a state. He was frantic when they took you in.”

Darin says nothing and empties the rest of his glass.

“As your doctor, I think it would do you both some good to get away for a bit.”

Darin considers it for a minute. “Not a bad idea. We could go to Paris, see Sherlock’s mother.”

John shakes his head. “I think it would be better if Sherlock was someplace more remote. Like that little cottage in Cornwall the family has.”

“Cornwall?” Darin asks.

“Yeah, away from his usual connections.” John gives him a long, knowing look.

Darin sets his glass down with a loud click as realization dawns. “Oh. Oh shit.” He hides his face in his hands. Someplace remote. Somewhere Sherlock doesn’t have the resources to obtain drugs. Sherlock being tired, depressed and closed off. Withdrawal? “How bad is it?”

John shakes his head. “Not sure. If some time to convalesce doesn't do it, we can discuss other options. I’m sorry. I tried to watch him, but it’s Sherlock. He does what he wants.”

Darin can’t cope with this. He’s sure he’s cracking apart. He presses his palms into his eyes hard.

“It’s all going to be fine, Darin,” John soothes. “He’s been through worse, and so have you. Go to Cornwall. Walk around the beaches, sleep in, shag each other senseless. Give yourselves some time.”

Darin lifts his face from his hands. Escaping sounds really good right now. “Maybe you're right. John, what would we do without you? You are the one fixed point in our lives.”

“Ta.” John reaches over and lays a hand on his shoulder. Darin tries to say something more but it turns into a choked sound. He’s embarrassed but he manages to at keep the tears at bay. John seems unperturbed and just rubs his shoulder.

####

Hours later, Sherlock hears a tap on the bedroom door.

“Come.”

Darin enters quietly. “Would you like something to eat? Mary sent John over with some stew.”

Sherlock is still dressed, sprawled on the duvet. His hands are steepled over his lips, and he’s staring at the ceiling. “No.”

“All right. I’ll leave some for later in case you want it.” Darin pulls a suitcase out of the closet. Sherlock’s eyes track him as he packs.

“John told you.”

Darin shuts the dresser drawer. “Yes he did. I don’t suppose you were going to tell me yourself.”

“I saw little point.”

“Just a lie of omission, then.” There was no anger in Darin’s tone, just tired resignation.

“I don’t need it now. I’m not taking any more, I assure you.”

“Until next time.”

“I am a drug addict, Darin,” Sherlock admits, very softly.

Darin sighs and comes to the bed and sits on the edge. “I know. I just wish I wasn’t the reason for your lapse this time.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “It was a small price to pay to get you out quickly.”

“You could have been arrested or even died. You could still end up back in rehab.”

“I will not ever go back to rehab,” Sherlock says flatly. “You are packing. Why?”’

“I called Mycroft. The caretakers are airing out and stocking the cottage in Cornwall for us. John thinks it’s a good idea that we both get some rest. Since I’m still suspended and you have nothing pressing on, I agree. We are leaving tomorrow morning. John is going to take the dogs.”

Sherlock says nothing.

“If you can’t go a week without, I want you to go to a clinic. I’ll be with you. Whatever you need.”

“We will not have this conversation now.” Sherlock’s voice is steel.

Darin stands up and leaves Sherlock to his ruminations. He resumes packing for both of them. The ridiculous, useless tears threaten again at the corners of his eyes. This is not the homecoming he had dreamed of.

####

The cottage is in remote Cornwall, away from the frequently visited tourist areas. Someone in the Holmes family, probably Sherlock’s late father Sigerson, had bought the place and kept it as a rustic retreat. It’s a simple building, whitewashed walls worn by the winds and the salt air. It consists of a main floor warmed by a fireplace and a dormer attic master bedroom. A small deck looks out onto the sea, and a wooden stair snakes down the cliffside to a small boat dock below. Plumbing, electricity and larger windows cut out to overlook the water seem to be the only modern upgrades in generations.

Darin and Sherlock spend most of the daytime hours apart for the first few days. Sherlock disappears into the countryside for long solo walks and only returns when the early spring weather is foul. Darin dozes in front of the fire and draws birds and plants in his long-neglected sketchbook. In the evenings they they speak little, lost in their own thoughts. They prepare simple meals and Sherlock retreats out to the deck and serenades the sea with his music into the late hours. When he comes to their bed, he keeps to his own side, and is gone again before Darin wakes, the blankets having been tucked in tight around him.

On the fourth day, Darin is sitting on the ground on a small blanket, attempting to draw a patch of _Spergularia rupicola_ flowers. His supplies are next to him in an battered waxed canvas bag that also contains a small flower press. He’s collected a few pages of specimens on his own walks. They are common species with no notable scientific value, but it is pleasing and makes him feel a bit like a Victorian gentleman. He’ll keep that romantic notion to himself however, knowing Sherlock would probably scoff at him for it.

It’s overcast and cold and a storm is threatening. Darin has stayed within sight of the cottage, but his thoughts turn to Sherlock. He hopes he isn’t too far afield if the weather turns, but then he hears soft footfalls approaching through the bracken.

“Hmm. The petals are not symmetrical on the left side.”

“Everyone’s a critic,” Darin quips looking up. Sherlock has given up his city clothes in favor of jeans, a pair of hiking boots, a battered woolen pea coat and scarf. His dark curls are in wild disarray from the wind and humidity. His complexion is a bit waxy, but is no longer looking like thin tissue paper pulled over bone. His changing eyes are soft peridot today, and Darin is relieved to see that at least some of the tightness around them is gone.

“I have not been very attentive,” Sherlock starts, pauses, shuffles at bit. “Last week was a trying ordeal for you. Are you well?”

One side of Darin’s mouth quirks up. Sherlock can read him like a book, he doesn’t have to ask. This is his awkward attempt to be considerate, to question the obvious and let Darin answer for himself instead of deducing it.

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you. The extra sleep did wonders. I don’t think I’ll be anxiety free until I can get back to the lab, but there is nothing I can do about it until the Deans meet next month. I’m trying not to think about it.”

“Is that all?” Sherlock asks, looking at his feet.

Darin sighs. “You know I’m worried about you. Is it bad? The crash?”

Sherlock makes a waving motion with his hand. “It has been hard to sleep. Temporary despondency as my neurochemicals even out. It’s almost over. It really wasn’t that much. When it was the party drug in vogue, it would have been a weekend binge. The club goers would still show up at the office on Monday. I am fine.” Sherlock doesn’t mention how much he has craved just a bit more cocaine, but there is only so much with which he needs to burden Darin.

“You like it here,” he says instead, pointing at his sketchbook.

“It’s quiet. I like hearing the sea and the birds when I wake in the morning.”

“Would you be amenable to extending our stay another week? We can drive to Predannick Wollas tomorrow where we have signal on our mobiles. We can check in and see if anything needs our attention. While we’re there, we can then go to Lizard Point, and look for those protected Red List plants you had mentioned. We can stay in the village or come back here that night.”

Darin looks surprised. “You’re not terminally bored?”

“I have plenty to do. There are some old burial mounds and stones I’ve been studying on my walks that are intriguing. I may look for a few books on the subject. I have violin compositions to work on, and Locatelli's Harmonic Labyrinth caprice is still giving me fits. I can’t always get the open strings to ring out.”

Darin, pleased at the idea of several more days of quiet study, nods his approval of the plan.

“Come down to the beach with me.”

“All right. I think it’s going to rain soon, though.” Darin closes his sketchbook and stows it away.

“It’s not far.” Sherlock reaches a leather clad hand to help Darin up. He keeps possession of his hand as they walk to the lowest edge of the cliff wall and only lets him go when they are forced to clamber down the rocks. The narrow strip of sand just qualifies for a beach, a little sheltered pocket against the waves and the rugged rocks.

“Was there something here you wanted to show me?” Darin asks, looking at the spare few metres of empty sand doubtfully.

Sherlock turns his coat collar up against the wind and stares out into the waves. A stray raindrop or two starts to patter down.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock reaches into an inside coat pocket and offers something out to Darin. A small glass drug injection vial drops into his palm.

“That’s the last of the cocaine.”

Darin rolls the vial between his fingers. A lump forms in his throat. He had found it necessary to bring some with him.

“I’m through with it. I know I’ve said it before, and you have little evidence to believe me this time.” Sherlock’s gaze is still off on some faraway point in the sea. “It distresses you. I don’t want to be the source of more pain. I know I’m hard enough to live with.”

Darin moves close and reaches a hand to his lower back. Sherlock loops an arm around him, pulling them hip to hip so they can both watch the water. “While I appreciate the gesture, if you want to do this, you have to do it for yourself.”

“Do not be foolish. I do everything for myself,” Sherlock retorts. “You. Us. It’s much more than I ever expected or ever thought I wanted. Please do not mistake keeping you happy as some act of munificence. I am being very selfish.”

Darin pulls him into his arms to face him and and holds him tightly. “You could just say you love me.” He kisses his wind-chapped lips tenderly. He only stops because the rain starts to pelt down on them with more determination.

He releases him and hands the little vial back. “You do the honors, then.”

Sherlock holds the glass up to the light, and takes a moment to peer at the liquid within. He then smiles at Darin, flips off the cap with his thumb, and pours the contents out with a flourish. He kicks a divot into the sand, and drops the bottle in and covers it up.

Darin beams back at him and holds out his hand. “Now let's get out of the storm, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story ends here, but there is an epilogue remaining which is someplace between mature and explicit. It's story-optional fluff and porn.
> 
> I wander in my head-canon with this AU a lot. I'm considering publishing little missing chapters and side stories as a separate series. For example, I have already written a story on what happens at the flower show, another one, almost complete, is about Sherlock's rehabilitation process. Someday I may explore Sherlock's sexuality a bit. I write these ficlets for me, but is there any interest in publishing them? Is there another scene you'd like to see?


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little fluffy smut. I think it's pertinent to the story for relationship building, but it's not required reading for the casefic arc, so I made it an epilogue if you want to skip it.

The rain is coming down in torrents outside. Darin is sitting in front of the fire with a book in his lap, where he has been stuck all afternoon. The gloomy day and the emotional expenditure from their earlier conversation has worn him down. He finds himself in a bleak mood, inventing worst case-scenarios. What will happen if the suspension drags on? He imagines a future with his grant money drying up, his students moving to other professors and his assistants going without a wage.

Sherlock is sawing away at his violin, playing a fast and complicated stanza over and over, trying to get the fingering just right. The furious music is increasing his anxiety. “Sherlock, can you play something else for a bit?”

“Hmm?”

“Anything else, please.”

Sherlock shrugs and starts playing an even faster paced Paganini caprice. Darin sighs. Well, he wasn’t exactly specific on what he wanted him to play.

_What in the hell will I do with myself if my reputation is ruined?_

Sherlock stops suddenly and puts his Strad away. Darin is relieved momentarily, but the noise is replaced by Sherlock mucking about the cottage. Banging cupboard doors, clattering pots in the small the kitchen, going up and down the stairs to the dormer attic bedroom. He tries to ignore the racket and chews on his cuticles.

“You’re fretting,” Sherlock says suddenly, inches from his ear. Darin jumps, surprised.

“Ack! You startled me! Why are you banging about?”

“Trying to stop your ruminations. It’s annoying.”

Darin rolls his eyes.

“Go upstairs and strip. I’ll be up in a moment.”

Darin blinks. “I’m not really in the mood...”

“I didn’t ask you, I told you. Go.” Sherlock demands.

Darin turns his head to glare at being commanded. Sherlock matches his gaze with an imperious twitch of an eyebrow. “Oh fine. Maybe it will help.”

Darin ignores Sherlock’s smirk and heads up the stairs, pulling off his shirt as he goes. He stops abruptly at the top of the landing when he sees what Sherlock has been up to. A scarf has been thrown over the bedside lamp shade, to mute the light to a soft glow. He has pulled the pillows and the duvet off, and laid a towel down in the center of bed on top of the sheets. Another towel is rolled up to the side. _Oh._

“You really are a shite-poor excuse for a sociopath,” Darin calls down the stairs.

“I suppose one can’t be perfect at everything,” Sherlock replies tartly.

Darin chuckles and takes off the rest of his clothes, his anticipation mounting. Sherlock is an amazing masseur. Darin isn’t quite sure where he picked up the skill and doesn’t really care to ask, truth be told. He fears corpses may have been involved somehow.

Sherlock comes up the stairs with an armful of towels and balancing a small tray. He smiles at Darin. “Sit.” He sets down the tray which contains a bowl of hot water warming a bottle of sweet almond massage oil, a pitcher and a drinking glass. Darin has no idea where the oil came from, since he surely didn’t pack it.

Sherlock sheds his garments down to his pants. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply for a few moments. Darin watches him limber himself up with tai chi like movements. He rolls his head on his shoulders, stretches his arms and flexes his wrists back. When finished, he comes over to the the side of the bed and kneels on the floor gracefully.

“Ready?”

Darin nods and closes his eyes. He doesn’t really see the use of this initial breathing exercise, but Sherlock insists on it. Sherlock takes Darin’s hand and places the palm on the center of his chest. He takes an exaggerated deep breath, and lets it out slowly. Darin’s only job is to try to synchronize his breathing with his partner’s, to relax.

Sherlock is highly skilled at the art of meditation. He can put himself into deep trances to activate recesses of his mind. He can sit for hours at time retrieving memories in his mind palace, or simply block everything else out to focus all of his considerable genius on a single problem. Darin thinks this is a particularly impressive skill, considering when he is not in a trance he tends to race around like a toddler strung out on sweets.

He is completely pants at meditation, Darin muses. Sherlock has tried to teach him with considerable frustration. He can’t quiet the stream of thoughts always bustling through his head. He’ll be trying to clear his mind and suddenly he will think of the milk he forgot at Tesco. Focusing on a pleasant scene like a peaceful stream in a meadow will make him have to pee...

“Darin,” Sherlock scolds gently.

“Sorry.” He stops himself from woolgathering and tries to focus on the rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest.

After what seems like an endlessly long time, Sherlock is apparently satisfied and taps Darin on the hip. He shifts on the bed until he is lying on his stomach on top of the towel. He feels another towel drape over his legs, this one warmed somehow. Has Sherlock been sticking towels in the oven? Fabric is flammable, he sure the hell hope he turned it off...

“Ah!” Darin exclaims. Firm, oiled hands press on either side of his spine and move down his back. Gliding strokes smooth the oil along his back from nape to pelvis, scenting the room with almonds. Light pressure to warm up muscles gradually becomes deeper, as deft strong fingers and knuckles seek out tight knots. He sighs and melts into the mattress.

Sherlock silently arranges Darin so a folded towel that smells faintly of lavender is supporting his head. Special care is taken on his trapezius muscles, which always seem to be tight. Sherlock applies gentle force to press his shoulders down towards his feet, until the band of muscle running up his neck loosens and relaxes. Thumbs press tenderly into the base of his skull and Darin hums as oiled fingers run through his hair and scratch lightly at his scalp. The towel draped over his lower body is removed and and placed over his back and shoulders to keep him warm.

Darin grunts as Sherlock uses his weight to lean his hands against his hip bones, waiting until some of the tension in his lower back eases before moving on. Glutes and hamstrings are kneaded until plaint, and his mind has gone so blissfully blank it takes him a moment to register when Sherlock is trying to guide him to turn over on his back. He wiggles a bit bonelessly to shift positions and the rolled up towel is placed behind his knees.

Through half-lidded eyes, he watches Sherlock massage his chest and the front of his shoulders. Sherlock’s brow is furrowed in concentration, and he glows with a slight sheen of perspiration and stray traces of oil he must have smudged on himself while pushing back his forelock. His eyes slide shut again so he can just feel the kneading as he works his way down his arms. His hands are lifted off the bed and manipulated tenderly, wrists stretched and base of thumb rubbed soothingly. His fingers are tugged just a bit until he feels a knuckle pop. A kiss is brushed into the palm of his left hand before being set back down on the bed and Darin smiles.

Sherlock moves down his body to pay attention to his hip flexors and quads, pressing deep into tissue until Darin winces. He’s a cyclist, and these are often abused and overworked muscles. Sherlock asks him if the pressure is too much in a gentle hush, as if speaking too loudly will break the spell. Darin is just able to make his slack neck muscles shake his head.

Fingers work lower, dragging along his shin bone, and a hand cups his heel. More oil is applied to his feet, and Sherlock caresses the tops, tracing the delicate tendons and bones. Fingers entwine with toes, giving them a gentle flex before he kneads the sole of the foot. A clever thumb finds a particular spot in his arch, and Darin gasps as he feels a jolt of heat shoot into his groin. He rubs slowly there until Darin is shifting his hips uneasily. He looks down and Sherlock has a little sly smile on his face. He knows well enough the reaction manipulating that strange and tender area has on his spouse. Darin curls his toes and pulls away, and Sherlock gets the hint to stop teasing and continues with the other leg in a more clinical manner.

Lastly, Darin feels Sherlock shift to the top of the bed, and his skull is cradled gently in warm palms. His head is moved and twisted delicately to lengthen his neck muscles before being set back down on the bed. Little circles are rubbed into the base of his jaw, his temples and forehead. 

There an almost ritualistic touch to signal the massage has concluded. Sherlock draws his hand down the side of his face, glides it lightly down his neck, and then along his clavicle to finally rest an open palm at the center of his chest. He hears Sherlock’s deliberately loud deep breath as a prompt to resume the breathing exercise. This time Darin has no problems matching it with his own. His whole body is relaxed and he is adrift in sweet bliss.

After a few moments Sherlock leans down to whisper in his ear, “Do you want me to touch you?”

“Hmm?” Is all he can manage. Sherlock settles down to lay beside him, fingers tracing down his body and circling his hipbones, teasing.

It takes Darin’s brain a few seconds to puzzle that out and formulate a reply. Hasn’t he been touching him for the last hour? Oh. _Oh._ He must be asleep and dreaming. Sherlock’s massages are not erotic. He usually bestows them when he is bored or as a method of apology if he has been a spectacular brat. They have never been a prelude to anything more, besides an afternoon nap.

“Was that a ‘yes’?” His spouse’s voice is deep and smooth like dark chocolate.

“Yes. It is completely unfair you have your looks and that voice...ah!” 

Sherlock smirks as his oiled fingers run lightly over Darin’s cock. “My voice? I don’t know what you mean,” he replies in Darin’s ear in an even a lower register.

“Lies.” Darin’s eyes flutter shut. Sherlock starts to touch him in long, unhurried strokes. It’s not nearly enough friction to get him off yet, but it sends warm ripples of pleasure through his body already flooded with endorphins. It somehow manages to suspend him in a state of euphoria with no building urgency, just a gentle constant delight that goes on and on, maybe for minutes, perhaps a year- Darin has lost all concept of time.

Darin slowly becomes aware that the sounds he has been distantly hearing are from his own lips, little pants and moans. He goes to stifle them with his hand, but it is pulled away gently.

“We are alone,” Sherlock whispers, his voice low and rough with passion, “there is no one along the moors or on the shoreline to hear you cry out for me.” He kisses his neck and catches the shell of his ear gently with his teeth. “I want to hear you. I want to know what I do to you.”

Darin’s desire is no longer tenderly held spellbound as need spikes through him, overflowing until he is suddenly almost at its crest. He can’t keep himself from arching into his lover’s slick and confident hand. Urgent gasps and nonsense words are freely falling from his lips.

Sherlock finally strokes him in earnest, giving Darin what he needs. “You are exquisite like this, aflame and writhing, lost in your lust for me. Come.”

Darin is quite sure he has forgotten how to breathe when the wave finally breaks and surges down, sending him into ecstasy. When he finds air, it’s to shout out Sherlock’s name before everything flashes white behind his eyelids. He rides the current of his release until it ebbs into little eddies that finally dissipate into stillness and peace.

Sherlock shifts off the bed, wipes his hands off on a flannel and puts the cap back on the massage oil. He then pours Darin a glass of water from the pitcher on the tray. He wraps Darin’s hand around the glass. “You will want to drink that.”

Darin props himself up to sip from the glass. He knows he is supposed to drink water after a massage, but he finds it especially soothing since his throat is a little raw from his passionate cries.

“You look chuffed,” Darin observes. Sherlock has a rather self-satisfied expression on his face.

“Shouldn’t I be? It’s a good thing we weren't at home. Mrs Turner would be calling in a disturbance.”

Darin sets the glass on the side table. “More like she’d have her ear against the wall,” He drops his head back down into the bed with a little thump. The need for sleep is tugging at him.

Sherlock laughs and returns to the bed with pillows. He climbs in and arranges the sheets over them both.

“Come here, mastermind.” Darin pulls him in and Sherlock actually yawns as they settle against each other.

“I love you.”

“Of course you do,” Sherlock smirks.

Darin chokes out a laugh and Sherlock starts to giggle and holds him tight. They are both still smiling as they drift off to sleep to the sound of the rain pattering on the roof.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to gowerstreet as usual- for Britpicking, tense changing, comma herding and just making me a better writer.
> 
> Thanks to alutiv for the plot double-check.
> 
> My apologies with any liberties I have taken in regards to the Chelsea Flower Show.


End file.
